


snow and repetitions of snow

by Vaynglory



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Angst and Humor, Complicated Relationships, M/M, Pre-Canon, Shitty Mages making shitty decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 23:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12119325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaynglory/pseuds/Vaynglory
Summary: “Let me guess: you’re going to propose we meet in some neutral location and spend a weekend merrily screwing each other’s brains out, until some old grudge or childish disagreement leads to a grand old screaming row, after which we don’t speak to each other for a month or a year or a decade. Am I warm?”Vanus and Mannimarco try to put aside their baggage for a weekend, with varying degrees of success.





	snow and repetitions of snow

**Author's Note:**

> A note on chronology: this takes place well pre-Elder Scrolls Online, sometime not too long after the founding of the Mages Guild in 2E 230. We don't have a canonical birthdate for either of these two nerds, but I imagine they're still pretty young at this point (by Altmer standards, anyway).
> 
> Any canon errors and/or excessive commas are entirely my own fault, despite the best efforts of my dear [elfprince.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elfprince)
> 
> Title is from Richard Siken's _The Worm King's Lullaby._

 

Vanus Galerion sank into his bathtub wearily, the troubles of the day weighing heavily upon him. It wasn’t easy being the Archmagister of the recently founded Mages Guild; there were matters unending that demanded his attention, politics both internal and external, and the thousand and one petty dramas that arose whenever you had a number of mages in one place. _Somebody_ had to take care of it all, and that somebody was usually him.

This state of affairs left Vanus with very little time for leisure, or even for the pursuit of his own arcane research. He hadn’t been able to catch up on his reading material in months. Desperate for something, anything, to focus his mind upon, he took a book with him to the bath -- the one place he could reasonably expect not to be disturbed. Letting the pages fall open to the spot he’d bookmarked, he settled comfortably against the edge of the tub, and—

“Good evening, Vanus.” Mannimarco’s voice rang out as his Psijic projection materialized at the other end of the bath. Vanus let out a most undignified squeak of surprise; with a fumble and a splash, his book sank sadly beneath the water.

“For Magnus’ sake, Mannimarco, that was a first edition copy of Shalidor’s _Principia Thaumaturgica!_ Do you _know_ how hard those are to come by?” Vanus spluttered, glaring up at the intruder with all the fury he could muster.

The smirk on Mannimarco’s face suggested that he almost certainly did. “Oh, have I called at a bad time? My sincerest apologies,” he said, in a tone not remotely sincere nor apologetic.

Vanus fished his book out of the water with a sigh, shaking off the drips in vain. “What do you _want?_ I thought we’d agreed things weren’t going to work out between us last time.”

“So we did,” said Mannimarco. “The time before that, as well. And yet we keep colliding, as though compelled by forces invisible—”

“Is that what they call stalking these days?” Vanus interrupted, setting his book down on the edge of the bathtub with a decisive, if soggy, _thwack._ “Let me guess: you’re going to propose we meet in some neutral location and spend a weekend merrily screwing each other’s brains out, until some old grudge or childish disagreement leads to a grand old screaming row, after which we don’t speak to each other for a month or a year or a decade. Am I warm?”

“I see you know how this goes by now, Vanus,” Mannimarco said smoothly, unwilling to rise to the bait. “I am merely… pre-empting the inevitable.”

“You could just _say_ you’ve missed me, you know,” Vanus said.

Mannimarco glared at him — but didn’t deny it.  “One month hence, then?” His projection vanished without even waiting for a reply, leaving Vanus alone in his rapidly cooling bathtub, both his book and his peace of mind absolutely ruined.

 

After much back-and-forth bickering via letter and Psijic projection, they mutually agreed to meet in Elsweyr, Vanus having recently travelled to the country to establish new Mages Guild chapters. He had foregone his usual Guild robes for the trip and was dressed simply in the local style, loose pants and travel-worn leather sandals, with a short-sleeved tunic in his favoured shade of blue.

Elsweyr’s climate was hotter and drier than his native Summerset, but this didn’t particularly trouble Vanus. The sun had always been kind to him; Mannimarco, however, had no such luck. When he appeared at their appointed meeting-place, an oasis half a mile out of the town of Orcrest, the necromancer was shrouded in thick black robes, a hood covering his face to shield his pale skin from the sun. (With little success — Vanus could see a sunburn was already beginning to spread across his cheeks and nose.)

“Damn it, Vanus,” he snarled, wiping a trickle of sweat from his forehead with one black-robed wrist. “Couldn’t you have chosen somewhere cooler?”

“Oh?” Vanus feigned innocence. “After the way you complained about the cold during our last night together in Solitude? I distinctly remember you saying we should go _Elsweyr_ next time.” He burst out laughing at his own joke.

Mannimarco just glowered at him from under his hooded cloak, too disgusted for words; he’d always had a low tolerance for puns. But any intimidating effect that his stare might have had was ruined by the flush creeping across his face and the sweat-damp tendrils of hair flopping into his eyes. Truth be told, after the inconvenience of Mannimarco’s last few visits, Vanus couldn’t help but feel just a touch of vicious pleasure at his old friend’s discomfort.

Friends — was that what they were? Friends, lovers, enemies: they’d been all that and more, often simultaneously. There wasn’t a word in any language Vanus knew for what he and Mannimarco were to each other, and as a scholar this made him uneasy. His natural inclination was to document and define and categorize, to take things apart until he knew just how they worked, but he had no framework with which to conceptualize the hows and whys of this, of _them_. He had no theory to explain how two such fundamentally incompatible beings could be drawn back to each other time and time again, no explanation for this strange gravity that kept them caught in one another’s orbit. Perhaps he never would.

But this was no time for such abstractions. Here and now Mannimarco was _his_ , for such time as he allowed himself to be — until some clash of wills or irreconcilable argument inevitably sent them spiralling out of each other’s lives again. While the understanding of just how to define it was something that escaped him, Vanus knew the steps to this dance well enough by now.

Stopping in the shade of some palm trees, Mannimarco threw off his hood and combed the hair out of his eyes with long, elegant fingers. He was still as ruinously handsome as ever, even (perhaps especially) with windswept hair and his face flushed from walking in the sun, and Vanus’ heart ached at the sight of him. Tangling his fingers in the folds of Mannimarco’s cloak, he tugged him down for a lingering kiss. “I missed you, you know.”

Mannimarco slid a hand into the soft hair at the back of Vanus’ neck, leaning in to press their foreheads together. “My dearest,” he murmured, gazing down at him through lowered lashes. Another kiss, then another, and before Vanus knew it he was backed up against the nearest palm tree, Mannimarco pressing kisses to his throat and collarbone in between whispered endearments. He kissed Vanus again, full on the lips; sank his teeth into his bottom lip and _sucked_ in that way that always made him shudder and sigh and plead for more—

And then, with a swirl of his cloak, Mannimarco turned and headed off towards the town. “Come along, Vanus, we haven’t got all day.” He didn’t even have the decency to look back.  

Vanus braced himself against the tree for support, panting and red-faced and utterly frustrated. Auri-El’s _balls_ , he hated that mer sometimes.

 

It wasn’t long before they came to the inn Vanus had picked out for their liaison, a tall wooden building in the Khajiiti style with sharply pointed roofs and carved senche-lions guarding the entranceway and a sign with two crescent moons hanging above the door. The walls were hung with intricately woven fabrics in red and purple and gold, fluttering in the cool breeze that blew in from the north as they entered.

A group of Khajiit traders were gathered at a table near the entrance, sipping moon-sugar tea and exchanging stories; they looked up briefly at the two Altmer but did not spare them a second glance. Travellers came here all the time, after all. Perhaps Mannimarco’s attire was a touch inappropriate for the climate ( _though he’d look out of place anywhere,_ Vanus thought, _save perhaps a crumbling necromantic lair piled high with skulls and dripping candles and other such clich_ _é_ _s_ ), but to the eye of anyone other than a highly perceptive mage, that’s all they were; simply two travellers passing through.

The innkeeper, a matronly Khajiit with grey fur and a topknot of braids with brightly-coloured beads atop her head, greeted the two of them as they made their way to the bar. “Bright moons shine upon you, travellers! What can Shazi-dra do for you?”

Vanus enquired whether they had any rooms available for the night. Shazi-dra twitched her tail and apologised profusely; the only room she had left was reserved for some visiting dignitary. Of course, no one had any idea when this illustrious figure would be arriving, but the room was set aside nonetheless. Vanus sighed in frustration and turned to leave, but was stopped by Mannimarco's hand on his arm.

Mannimarco leaned across the bar and gave Shazi-dra his most winning smile. “Kind lady, won’t you reconsider? My husband and I have travelled so far — we’re on our honeymoon, you see. We’re hoping to make it to Dune by Morndas and need a place to stay — just for tonight?” He wrapped an arm around Vanus, who could only stare dumbfounded as Mannimarco unleashed the full force of his considerable charm upon the unwitting innkeeper. “We would be forever in your debt.”

Shazi-dra actually _giggled._ “Oh, to be young and in love again! This one remembers her own honeymoon with such fondness. How can she resist such a charming plea?” Mannimarco draped himself across Vanus and pressed a kiss to his temple. Vanus made the executive tactical decision to keep his mouth firmly shut; it seemed his companion had the situation well in hand.

The innkeeper had one of her staff show them to their room (which was even fancier than the rest of the inn, all decked out for the absent ambassador) and even brought up a bottle of the inn’s finest vintage herself. “For the newlyweds,” she purred, and left them to it.

Mannimarco poured them each a glass. “Not bad,” he said, taking a sip.

“You are a terrible person. I hope you know that,” Vanus said acidly, accepting the offered glass of wine.

“Would you have me any other way, oh darling husband of mine?” Mannimarco fired back, with a smirk. Vanus could only glare at him in response — though he couldn’t help the fluttering in his stomach or the blood rushing to his face at hearing Mannimarco call him _that_.

The wine was sweet and heady and quickly disappeared. It hit Vanus quicker than he’d anticipated, though he really should have expected this by now — he had never been much for holding his liquor, and red wine in particular tended to knock him right out. Swaying slightly, he made his way to the bed, collapsing amidst a pile of embroidered cushions to rest his head against Mannimarco’s shoulder.

Mannimarco untied the ribbon keeping Vanus’ hair in its loose ponytail, ran a hand through his wavy locks, and Vanus couldn't help but let out a soft sigh of pleasure at the feel of fingers brushing gently against his scalp. There was something comforting about being with someone who knew him so well, knew all the ways to make him feel good — someone who had been with him in one way or another since the very beginning. Someone who knew all his quirks and foibles and loved him none the less despite them, for better or for worse.

A tickling sensation jolted Vanus out of his reverie — Mannimarco nuzzling against his ear with his nose. He pressed a kiss to the soft outer shell of Vanus' ear, then took the pointed tip into his mouth and sucked ever so lightly. Vanus shivered, batting him away with a laugh. “Manni, _stop!_ ”

“Still ticklish, my dear Vanus?” Mannimarco smiled smugly, pressing him back against the pillows. “What a _shame._ ” In a flash he was on top of him, running his hands up and down his sides until Vanus was helpless to do anything but collapse in a fit of giggles and plead for mercy. Of course one of the downsides of having a lover who knew him so well was that the bastard knew all his weaknesses, too.

But two could play at that game. Vanus grabbed the front of Mannimarco's robes and pulled him down for a fierce, hungry kiss; wrapped his legs around his waist and rolled them over so that he was on top, and it was Mannimarco's turn to be pressed against the bed. Mannimarco arched one delicate eyebrow and was surely about to make some witty remark, but he didn't have the chance to open his mouth before Vanus was on him again, kissing him breathless.

“Now that you have me at your mercy,” Mannimarco rumbled, in between kisses, “what do you intend to do with me?”

Vanus grabbed his wrists and pinned him to the mattress, leaving a trail of feather-light, teasing kisses down his jawline and throat. He couldn’t help but feel a rush of satisfaction at the way Mannimarco shuddered and gasped beneath him; his neck had always been a highly sensitive spot, a fact of which Vanus intended to take full advantage.

“Oh, I can think of a thing or two,” Vanus said with a self-satisfied grin. He still hadn’t had his revenge for Mannimarco’s teasing under the palm trees earlier, after all.

 

The following morning, Vanus awoke with the sun. He’d grown accustomed to rising early during the course of his travels, unlike Mannimarco who was still asleep and would likely remain so until noon if left uninterrupted — he'd always been a creature of the night, and proved surprisingly difficult to rouse in the morning (and excessively cranky when awoken). There was probably a necromancy pun in there somewhere about waking the dead, but it was much too early for that sort of thing. Vanus preferred not to engage in wordplay before he'd had a decent breakfast.

The inn had a communal bath-house, which was blessedly empty at this early hour. Vanus ran a hot bath, sat and soaked until he started to feel a little less achy and drowsy. He was still slightly hungover from last night’s wine, but a good breakfast and some strong, sweet coffee ought to fix that.

Having not packed a change of clothes, he put on his dusty and travel-worn tunic, trousers and sandals and headed back into the tavern’s main hall. Shazi-dra was there already, humming as she wiped down the tables, her tail conducting an invisible symphony behind her. She greeted him cheerfully as he entered.

“A fine morning to you! This one hopes you slept well — or perhaps there was no time for sleeping, hmm?” She winked at Vanus, who blushed and glanced away. “Will your charming husband be joining us for breakfast this morning?”

“Ah, well. I was hoping I could bring some breakfast up to him, actually. Coffee, too, if you’ve got it,” Vanus said. “He’s not so charming first thing in the morning, unless you come prepared.”

The innkeeper nodded. “Shazi-dra understands. Her wife is as grumpy as an Orc with a sore head in the morning!” She laughed, as though at some private joke. “Though perhaps this is not too surprising, as this one’s wife _is_ an Orc.”

As it happened Shazi-dra’s wife, Galzakh, was in charge of the kitchens at the inn. Shazi-dra relayed Vanus’ order to her; Galzakh kissed her on the cheek and then departed back to the kitchens. Vanus felt just a little wistful watching the two of them and their easy companionship.

Shazi-dra sat with him while he waited for breakfast to be prepared. “How did you and Galzakh meet, if you don’t mind me asking?” Vanus said. “You don’t see too many Khajiit and Orsimer pairs around, even in these parts.”

She seemed all too happy to tell Vanus her story. Shazi-dra had been a travelling entertainer in those days, Galzakh a mercenary hired to guard their caravan; she’d been charmed by the big, gruff Orc warrior, even more so after Galzakh had confided in Shazi-dra her dreams of becoming a chef someday. They’d travelled together for years, and eventually put aside enough coin to open the inn together.

Vanus told her how he’d travelled with a band of troubadours for a few years as a boy, and they spent a few minutes swapping stories and tricks of the trade. “Oh! But you have not told Shazi how you met _your_ mate, my friend!” the innkeeper purred. “It is only fair, after all.”

“Ah. Yes.” Vanus shifted nervously in his seat, steepling his hands together on the table. Unlike Mannimarco, he was a terrible liar; he wasn’t sure how long he could keep up a charade of some happy marriage. Best, perhaps, to stick as close to the truth as possible. “We… we were schoolmates together, back in the Summerset Isles. Schoolyard rivals, and then friends. He was my first friend, I suppose - my first love, too.”

Shazi-dra’s tail twitched eagerly, and she urged him to go on. “We’ve had our ups and downs — certainly had our share of arguments,” Vanus continued, with a rueful laugh. “But in all honesty, there’s no one else I’d want to share the rest of my life with.”

“So romantic!” Shazi-dra cooed. “A bond that lasts so long is truly something special, no?”

Vanus stared off into the distant desert, thinking of those long-gone days. A simpler time, perhaps, back when he'd thought there were no secrets between Mannimarco and himself. Before Mannimarco's exile and his own departure from the Psijic Order and all that came with it.

And yet — as Shazi-dra had said, their bond had endured. In whatever shape or form, this undefinable thing that was between them had lasted this long. Would last, as long as they both would live. Despite his (overblown, some might say) opinion of his own intellect Vanus Galerion was uncertain of many things, but this -- this was one thing he knew with utmost certainty.

Just then Galzakh returned from the kitchens, bearing a tray heaped high with bread and fruit and a pot of melted cheese for dipping — and most importantly, a pot of fresh coffee. “Ah, Galzakh! Bright moon of my heart!” Shazi-dra exclaimed.

“Aren’t there tables you should be cleaning, you old flatterer?” Galzakh said, though the smile in her eyes belied the gruffness of her tone. She was a tall, burly-armed Orc with short-cropped hair and gilded tusks, certainly easier for Vanus to imagine as a mercenary than a chef. But no one could mistake that she and Shazi-dra were happy with the life that they’d made here; theirs, too, seemed to be an enduring bond.

Vanus took the tray and bade the innkeeper and chef farewell; best get going before he got too sentimental. He climed the stairs back to their rented room, keeping the tray aloft with a quick telekinesis spell once he was sure no one was watching (while it was growing commonplace enough with the rise of the Guild, there were still many who would view such cavalier use of magic with suspicion). Opening the door, he floated the tray into the room.

Mannimarco stirred sleepily and made an unhappy noise as the light from the hallway filtered into the room. “P'ssoff,” he mumbled, rolling over and burying his face in the pile of pillows.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Vanus chirped, very deliberately making no effort to be quiet whatsoever. Mannimarco responded with a wordless groan more suitable to one of his undead minions. “I brought breakfast!”

The necromancer's reply was unintelligible, muffled as it was by a mountain of pillows, but Vanus had no doubt it was impolite. _If only Shazi-dra could see my “charming husband” now._ He smiled, with fond exasperation.

Time to play the ace up his sleeve. “There's coffee, too,” he said, nonchalantly.

Mannimarco sat up, knocking a stray pillow off the side of the bed. “I love you,” he said with feeling (whether this was directed at Vanus or the coffee pot was uncertain; Vanus, ever generous, chose to give him the benefit of the doubt). Vanus flopped down beside him, levitating the breakfast tray over to the bed, and poured coffee for them both. Mannimarco was already digging into the fondue, despite his earlier dismissal of breakfast.

“And I you, dear heart,” Vanus replied softly, taking a sip of his own coffee. The coffee was strong and hot and just a little too sweet for Vanus' liking, but he wasn't complaining; it had certainly done wonders to sweeten Mannimarco's demeanour. Having already wolfed down his own breakfast and coffee, the necromancer was reclining against his nest of pillows, watching Vanus with a sleepy-eyed smile.

The smile grew wider. “What?” said Vanus, a handful of bread and melted cheese halfway to his mouth.

“You've got something on your face,” Mannimarco said mildly.

Vanus huffed in annoyance and scrubbed at his mouth and cheeks with his free hand. “Still there,” said Mannimarco. “Here — just let me get that, will you?” He leaned over and brushed the stray crumbs from Vanus' chin, then stole a kiss for his troubles.

“You always have ulterior motives, don't you?” Vanus said fondly.

“Always,” Mannimarco replied, pressing a gentle kiss to Vanus' shoulder. He kissed his way up Vanus' neck and the line of his jaw, then nibbled on his earlobe; it tickled in a not unpleasant way and Vanus couldn't help but let out a breathy little moan. Breakfast forgotten, he tugged Mannimarco back down towards the bed.

The rest of the morning passed by in a pleasant haze, lazy kisses and gentle touches giving way to a more passionate exchange. It was slow and sweet and achingly tender; afterwards, Vanus lay sprawled against the pile of pillows, Mannimarco curled up alongside him with his head on his shoulder.

Vanus held him close, trying to commit every facet of this moment to memory. The scent of coffee and the sunlight trickling through the curtains, the feel of Mannimarco's skin against his, the spill of his white hair down his shoulders and across the embroidered pillows. For all that they'd been together so long, their days together were few and far between, and sweet moments like this even rarer.

Mannimarco yawned, nuzzling against Vanus' neck. “You're not going back to sleep, are you? It's nearly noon,” Vanus teased him.

He opened one pale golden eye then closed it again, laying his head back down against Vanus' shoulder. “Well, there _are_ other things we could be doing,” he said in a husky purr.

“Again? By the Eight, you're _insatiable_ ,” Vanus laughed. It seemed as though Mannimarco was all talk, though. At least for the moment he was quite content just to lay in Vanus' arms and doze, and despite his teasing Vanus had no objections to this.

They lay together for some time, basking in the warm sunlight, Vanus idly combing his fingers through Mannimarco's hair. For just a moment he felt like they could have this. For more than a day or a week at a time, more than letters exchanged across vast distances and clandestine meetings. Here and now, they had each other, and this thing between them had endured all that had come before; had survived betrayal and heartbreak and years of enmity. What, then, was there to lose?

He took a deep breath. “Marry me,” Vanus said.

Mannimarco snorted derisively. “Have you gone mad, Vanus, or do my ears deceive me? I could have sworn I heard you proposing to me.”

An angry flush spread across Vanus' cheeks. “There is nothing wrong with my mind, though I can't speak for your ears. I _am_ proposing to you.”

“No,” said Mannimarco.

This was not going remotely as planned. “ _No?_ Is that all you have to say?” Vanus was furious, now. To be honest he wasn't sure what he had been expecting with his impulsive proposal, but for Mannimarco to reject him out of hand like that – how _dare_ he? “I offer you my heart and soul, for as long as the both of us shall live, and you say _no?_ ”

Mannimarco pulled back from him, stared down at Vanus coldly. “I seem to recall I offered you my heart and soul once, beneath the Ceporah Tower. You rejected me then.”

A painful memory, that — their confrontation on the isle of Artaeum, so many years ago. Vanus had discovered the dark rituals Mannimarco had been practicing in secret, and came to him beneath the Ceporah Tower, pleading with him to stop. Mannimarco had asked Vanus to join him in his search for power through necromancy, and Vanus had refused; thus had their partnership ended.

Despite this, and all that had followed, they'd still continued to seek each other out time and time again, somehow managing, even if only for short stretches of time, to find a ceasefire despite their irreconcilable differences. Even after everything Mannimarco meant too much to Vanus for him to just be able to let him go, and he'd thought they felt the same way about each other. But perhaps, Vanus thought, he'd been wrong.

“It’s not the same!” Vanus retorted.

“Is it not?” said Mannimarco. “If you would have me, Vanus, then have _all_ of me. Or be content with what you have, and do not demand more.” Mannimarco's voice trembled ever so slightly; his hands were clenched in the sheets beside him. “You think some divine blessing, some exchange of rings and empty vows, will make us any more than what we are to one another? Then you're more of a fool than I thought.”

Vanus pushed himself out of the bed, gathered up his clothes and the small rucksack of belongings he'd taken with him for the trip. “Oh, I'm a fool, all right. For thinking it could _ever_ work out between us!” He turned away and began to dress, trying to will away the hot, angry tears welling up in his eyes.

“Goodbye, Vanus,” Mannimarco said flatly. He threw on his robes and boots, called up a portal with a flick of his wrist, and disappeared through it.

“Goodbye,” Vanus whispered, to no one in particular.

 

Vanus' business in Elsweyr was quickly wrapped up; he departed for Cyrodiil soon after. He'd been invited to give a series of lectures on Merethic Era mytho-history at the Guild chapter in Bruma. Autumn was winding on into winter now and the weather was growing cold, especially here amongst the snowy Jerall Mountains, but it made a welcome change from Elsweyr. He’d had enough of desert landscapes for now.

He threw himself into his work with a vengeance, welcoming any distractions from the farce his personal life had become. Vanus spent his days in the lecture hall, his evenings writing and researching. He no longer complained about not having a moment's peace. That is, until the letters started arriving.

The first one was delivered by a large raven with an unnervingly intelligent glint in its eye. It flapped its way into the Guildhall to perch on Vanus' desk while he was in the middle of breakfast (he'd taken to eating at his desk lately, the better to avoid distractions from his work), and dropped an envelope in his lap, looking up at him expectantly.

The envelope was unmarked, no return address. It was sealed with a royal purple wax seal, an emblem stamped into it of a grinning skull with worms wriggling from the eyesockets. There was only one person Vanus knew who would seal their letters with something so tasteless.

With a growing feeling of foreboding, he opened the envelope and unfolded the letter inside. It read:

 

_Dearest Vanus,_

_I hope this letter finds you well._

_Please know that I deeply regret the terms under which we parted last; however, I bear you no ill will for your lapse in judgement. I hope that we can move past this miscommunication, and return to a mutual relationship of trust and respect between esteemed equals._

_I remain eternally yours,_

_Mannimarco, King of Worms_

 

“The _nerve_ of him!” Vanus paced up and down the room furiously, his ire growing with every word he read. By the time he'd finished reading, the letter had begun to smoulder around the edges. “Of all the arrogant, presumptuous, ill-mannered—”

The letter burst into flame in his hand, and Vanus put it out with a hastily cast spell. He tossed the charred remains of the letter into the fireplace, where it crumbled into ashes.

Vanus returned to his desk and dashed off an abrupt reply — one with no pleasantries or terms of endearment to spare, and certainly no “yours.”

 

_Mannimarco,_

_I have nothing to say to you. Consider our association, such as it is, to be concluded._

_Sincerely,_

_Archmagister Vanus Galerion, Guildmaster of the Mages' Guild_

 

He unceremoniously stuffed his reply into the envelope, and handed it to the raven. “Take this to your master, then. May he choke on it,” he said to the bird. The raven cawed reproachfully at him, took the letter in its beak and winged its way out the window again to parts unknown.

Another letter arrived a week later, delivered by the same raven. Then another, and another. The frequency of the letters increased; soon Vanus was receiving them every second day, and then daily. Every day, without exception, he cast the letters into the fire before even bothering to open them. He knew exactly what he’d find.

Finally, the letters stopped, and Vanus heaved a sigh of relief. _So he’s finally gotten the message. About time._

But his relief was short-lived; not long after a package turned up on the doorstep of the Mages' Guildhall bearing a wax seal with a familiar skull-and-worms insignia. A small crowd had gathered around to investigate, including a gaggle of adepts, a couple of off-duty Lamp Knights, and the Bruma chapter’s Master of Incunabula. Vanus sighed. If there was one thing mages excelled at above all others, it was sticking their noses into other people’s business.

The package was small yet solid-looking, wrapped in thick wax-paper. A quick spell of detection revealed it to contain no living or enchanted thing; its contents were evidently purely mundane and inert, showing no magical properties. Vanus picked it up gingerly, still not trusting the package to be harmless — he’d been suspicious of such things ever since the time Mannimarco had sent him a carnivorous flower from the depths of Valenwood as a misguided post-breakup apology present. (While it had done no lasting damage to any living creature, the plant _had_ chewed the sleeve off of Vanus’ second-favourite robe and terrorized many an apprentice.)

He unwrapped it cautiously, tearing off the seal and paper to reveal… a book. A copy of Shalidor’s _Principia Thaumaturgica_ , in fact, the gilded edges and green leather binding consistent with the first print run.

The Master of Incunabula cooed appreciatively. “My, tracking that down must have been no small feat! That’s a genuine first edition Shalidor, that is!”

Vanus didn’t need telling; he knew _exactly_ what this was. He opened the front cover, upon which was inscribed in ornate, looping calligraphy:

 

_My darling Vanus,_

_Don’t drop this one in the bathtub._

_With love, M._

 

“That insufferable _cad!”_ Vanus exploded. With a swish of robes he turned on his heel and marched straight back into the Guildhall, ignoring the crowd of hangers-on that had gathered behind him. His footsteps ringing on the stone floors, he made straight for the hearth burning in the main hall and tossed the book into the fire.

Behind him the Master of Incunabula was in hysterics. “Archmagister, how _could_ you?! That’s a first edition—”

“I am _aware,”_ Vanus said, still seething with rage.

 

The following day another package addressed to Vanus appeared, bearing the same seal and wrapped in much the same fashion. This one was soft and lightweight; he tore it open to reveal a delicately embroidered silken robe in his very favourite shade of blue.

“So he thinks he can buy back my favour, does he? Preposterous!” Vanus whirled around to address the Lamp Knight on guard duty outside the gate, who was doing a terrible job of pretending not to snoop. “Who delivered this?!” he demanded.

The knight straightened her posture immediately, standing to attention. “No one saw them, Archmagister! Sabjorn on the night shift said it just _appeared_ , as though from thin air—”

“Sabjorn on the night shift fell asleep on duty, more likely,” Vanus grumbled. “Tell the Palatinus I want the guard doubled, effective _immediately.”_

“Right away, sir!” The knight saluted. “Are we in danger?”

“Danger?” Vanus laughed bitterly. “The one who sent this is the most dangerous mer I’ve ever met. He is charming, ruthless, infinitely manipulative… and, it seems, incapable of taking ‘no’ for an answer.”

His hands clenched in the soft fabric of the robe. It really was a beautifully crafted garment, even if it was a touch too thin for the bitter cold of northern Cyrodiil. It was almost going to be a shame to have to destroy it.

 

As per Vanus’ instructions, the Guildhall’s guard was doubled. It didn’t seem to make a difference. Another package arrived the very next morning; this time it was a bouquet of freshly-cut cherry blossoms from the Summerset Isles (at least Mannimarco seemed to have learned what constituted an appropriate gift of flowers). The next day, a beautiful crystal with arcane lightning trapped inside; after that, a pouch of rare runestones of unknown origin; after _that_ , a book of poetry from the First Era, translated from the original Ayleidoon. Each and every one, Vanus destroyed.

Not a single guard claimed to have seen the one who delivered these packages, which Vanus found unusual. Mannimarco’s messengers were not typically known for their subtlety; decomposing thralls and eldritch messenger-birds tended to attract attention. _Could he possibly be stooping to the level of delivering these unwanted gifts himself?_ Vanus choked back a laugh at the thought of Mannimarco skulking around the Guildhall in his customary black robes and circlet, package under his arm, like some kind of overdressed eldritch mailman.

The last package was much smaller than the others; by the time Vanus caught sight of it it had drawn a crowd of onlookers, speculating on what manner of nefarious device might be inside. (Opinion was divided on whether someone was trying to kill the Archmagister or woo him; Vanus himself had done absolutely nothing to confirm or deny any of their suspicions. In any case, knowing Mannimarco, it could be either - or both - at any given time.)

This item, Vanus could tell, was enchanted. Even without casting a spell of detection, he could see the intricate threads of magic that were tangled within; enchantments to resist damage, and other, subtler things that he couldn’t immediately pick apart. But none of it, from what he could see, seemed _harmful_ in any way. Probably not an attempt at assassination, then. _Probably._

He opened the package. Within was a tiny, velvet-covered box, and inside that was a simple white-gold band with a single blue gem inlaid. There was no note, no explanation, but the meaning was clear. A series of gasps were heard from the crowd that had gathered on the Guildhall’s front steps; behind Vanus, the Lamp Knight on duty passed a handful of coins to her companion, who smirked and whispered “called it”.

Vanus _seethed._ “You missed your chance, Mannimarco,” he growled under his breath. His hand clenched around the ring in anger. The absolute, unprecedented _gall_ of him! To send such a thing after rejecting Vanus’ proposal — it defied belief. And then the bastard had to go and make his insult of a ring _indestructible._

Well, Mannimarco would get no satisfaction from him. He was going to find a way to destroy that ring and send the ruined remains back to Mannimarco himself.

 

That night, Vanus was undressing for bed when he heard a tapping on the balcony door. He tried to ignore it but the noise grew louder and more insistent. Finally he relented, making his way to the door to investigate; from between the curtains he caught a glimpse of black and sighed heavily. “Another blasted raven? _Really,_ Mannimarco?”

He threw on a dressing robe over his nightclothes, stepped into his slippers and opened the door. What awaited him was not another raven but the King of Worms himself.

Mannimarco was dressed appropriately for the weather for once, in fur-trimmed black robes, gloves and boots, and a long black scarf wrapped around his neck. It didn't seem to be affording him much protection from the elements, however; he was visibly shivering, the tips of his ears and his nose reddened from the cold wind.

Vanus had no sympathy for him whatsoever. “Get. _Out.”_

Mannimarco gestured at the snowy, mountainous landscape around them. “We _are_ outside, Vanus, in case you hadn't noticed.” He huddled deeper into his fur-lined robes with a sniff.

“Did you come here to argue semantics with me, Mannimarco? No – you know what. It doesn't matter. I have nothing left to say to you.” Vanus turned back to the door, but was stopped by Mannimarco's gloved hand on his arm.

“Well, _I_ have something to say to you. And I'm not leaving until I've said it.” Mannimarco dug his heels in and clutched Vanus' arm tighter.

Vanus sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose between the thumb and index finger of his free hand. “Then _speak_ , damn you. Before we both freeze out here.”

Mannimarco drew in a deep breath. “I've missed you. Terribly.” He stared down at his boots, unable to meet Vanus' eyes. “Not a day goes by where you are not on my mind. Where thoughts of you do not keep me up at night. I wish it were otherwise—”

“So do I,” Vanus snorted, unable to keep himself from being just a _little_ bit petty.

“Will you _listen_ to me for once?” Mannimarco huffed in exasperation. “What I mean to say is — I am yours, Vanus. Heart and soul. For as long as the both of us shall live.” He finally raised his eyes from the floor, an unreadable expression on his pale face. His hand dropped from Vanus' arm and retreated into the folds of his robe. Mannimarco's tall frame was wracked with shivers, hunched over against the cold, his usually immaculate hair in a bedraggled state from the violence of the wind. He looked, in short, fairly pitiful.

And despite himself, despite everything, Vanus couldn't help but be charmed by him. His hand reached out almost of its own accord to touch Mannimarco's shoulder. The necromancer leaned into the touch, shuffled closer to Vanus until they were nose to nose. They stood there for a long moment, neither one saying anything.

Then Mannimarco turned his head to the side and sneezed, loud and sudden, burying his face in his fur-clad shoulder with a trembling sniff.

“Oh, very well. Come inside, before you catch your death,” Vanus said finally, taking Mannimarco's arm. He led him indoors to stand in front of the fireplace, helped Mannimarco out of his snow-dusted robes. They were both shivering now from standing too long in the cold, and huddled together in front of the fire, soaking in the warmth.

Mannimarco idly rubbed a thumb up and down Vanus' collarbone beneath the fabric of his nightshirt. Vanus shivered a little, though not from the cold. As much as he wished it were otherwise he still couldn't help but melt under Mannimarco's touch. He tilted his head upwards just as Mannimarco leant down and their lips met in a tentative kiss, one that grew deeper and more heated with each second that passed. Vanus reached one hand up to tangle in Mannimarco's hair, the other fisted in the fabric of his shirt. By the time they finally broke it off they were both panting a little, foreheads pressed together.

Pulling away, Vanus took Mannimarco’s hand and led him towards the bed. “Don’t read too much into this,” he said. “I’m simply pre-empting the inevitable.”

“Ah, so you _did_ miss me,” Mannimarco said with a chuckle, an insufferably smug smile playing across his lips. Vanus pressed him back against the pillows, shutting him up with a kiss. He was damned if he was going to let Mannimarco set the pace this time.

And oh, _how_ he had missed him — but there was no need to say it. Just this once it seemed they understood each other perfectly.

 

Morning came and Mannimarco, surprisingly, still remained. Vanus awoke curled beside him, Mannimarco’s head resting on his arm, their limbs tangled together like they once used to as apprentices in Artaeum a lifetime ago. For a moment Vanus could almost pretend that nothing had changed, that everything was fine, that they’d never had that fateful confrontation under the Ceporah Tower. But self-deception had always left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he couldn’t keep up the pretense for long. It was nothing but a pretty fantasy: pleasant, but ultimately empty.

It was cold, his breath turning to steam in the frosty air, and Vanus shivered. He disentangled himself from the sleeping necromancer (who made an unhappy noise of protest and clung to Vanus’ arm) and went to start the fire in the hearth. The curtains were still half-open and the sun was rising behind the fog in the Jerall Mountains, a hazy, dusky-pink glow filtering through the mist. Masser and Secunda were still in the sky, day’s dawning light having not yet chased them behind the horizon.

These were the times he loved most of all; the in-between moments, neither truly night nor day, where the passage of time seemed to halt. Where the sun and the moon could share the sky for a time, if only briefly, before the world moved on in its endless dance. Foolish of him, he knew, to want more than this. To think that he and Mannimarco could have more than these in-between times, when they were so plainly incompatible, as distant and uncompromising as celestial bodies locked in separate orbits.

Vanus shook his head, embarrassed by his own maudlin imaginings. By the Eight, what was he thinking? _I sound like one of those rubbish poets Mannimarco used to read when we were students,_ he thought. Comparing his lover to the _moon_ , how daft. How patently absurd. Drawing the curtains, he lit the fire with a snap of his fingers.

He returned to the bed, sinking down into the soft covers, and was immediately latched onto by a half-asleep and heat-seeking Mannimarco. An icy foot slid its way along Vanus’ calf and he made a sound that could under _no_ circumstances be described as a yelp. Merely a noise of surprise. A most dignified and manly noise of surprise.

“You’re lucky I love you so,” Vanus murmured, tugging the covers up over the two of them, and was answered by a low chuckle from within the nest of blankets.

Somehow he found himself being lulled back to sleep by the crackling of the hearth and the warmth of the other mer in his arms. When he awoke again, it was to the whistling of the wind outside, and a pair of heavy-lidded golden eyes watching him from above. Mannimarco was leaning over him, not saying anything, just watching, with a tender and unguarded expression.

“What?” Vanus said, drowsily. Mannimarco didn’t answer, only lifted Vanus’ hand and slid something cool and metallic onto his finger — the ring that he’d sent Vanus the previous morning, blue gem twinkling in a band of white gold. It fit him perfectly.

“The offer still stands,” Mannimarco said softly. “Heart and soul. If you’ll have me.”

Vanus took his hand, laced their fingers together. “For as long as the both of us shall live,” he replied. “But — I don’t have a ring for you.”

“Next time, then,” said Mannimarco.

“Next time,” echoed Vanus. He tugged him back to lay against the pillows, their hands still entwined, and they lay that way for some time; just listening to the howling of the wind and snow outside, breathing in time with each other.

“You’re not getting me in a chapel, though,” Mannimarco said, as an afterthought.

Vanus laughed. “I should think not,” he agreed. “You’d probably catch fire.”

The sun had fully risen by then, dark and misty outside though it was, the moons sinking beneath the mountains to sleep ‘til nightfall. Which Mannimarco finally took as his cue to leave. Someone had to leave first; Vanus knew this story well by now.

The both dressed hastily, though the room was now warm enough for there to be no harm in lingering. Before Mannimarco could conjure up a portal Vanus grabbed his hand, took it between both of his, pressed a tender kiss to his knuckles. “I’ll miss you,” he said hoarsely, somehow unable to lift his gaze to meet the other mer’s, eyes focused on their joined hands.

Mannimarco cupped Vanus’ cheek with his free hand, tilted his face upwards. “As will I,” he murmured, closing the distance between them to meet Vanus’ lips with his. It was soft and unhurried, not frantic like last night’s kisses; this didn’t feel like a goodbye. More of a farewell, perhaps.

“Wait,” said Vanus, as Mannimarco turned to leave, catching his sleeve and holding him close. “Shall we… that is to say. One month hence?”

“One month hence,” replied Mannimarco, with a smile. He kissed him again and then with a flick of his wrist disappeared into a whirling portal, leaving Vanus alone once more.

Vanus went out to the balcony and leaned on the railing, huddled into his coat, thinking about all the ways their story could have turned out differently. If Mannimarco had stayed, if Vanus had gone with him, if things hadn’t gone the way they did beneath the Ceporah Tower all those years ago—

_No_ , thought Vanus,  _there is no other version of this story._ They had their dusks and dawns, their in-betweens; and it was not what he wanted, but it was what he had. It was enough.

And Vanus Galerion stared out into the misty Jerall Mountains and waited for moonrise.

 


End file.
